The Angel in My View
by fabeceous sparkplug
Summary: don't give up on it too quick. it gets better. and if you like twilight parodies, allow me to direct you to Flourescent Grey's Alice/Jasper story. can't remember what it's called just now, but it's very good, and i didn't write it. relish and review!


**Alone**

From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were; I have not seen

As others saw; I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I loved, I loved alone.

Then- in my childhood, in the dawn

Of a most stormy life- was drawn

From every depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still:

From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that round me rolled

In its autumn tint of gold,

From the lightning in the sky

As it passed me flying by,

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.

-Edgar Allen Poe

PROLOGUE

"Esme!" Mama called urgently. "Where are you, girl? Supper's getting cold!"

"I'll bet she fell out of a tree and broke her arm," Emma said snottily.

"Leg," a voice corrected through gritted teeth.

"I heard something, Mama. From over there," Elsie pointed in Esme's direction. Esme heard Elliot trot up towards the tree behind her.

"Found her!" he crowed happily. He stopped grinning as he took in her situation.

A small, slender, but shapely girl in a blue print dress huddled at the base of a large maple tree. Her caramel braid was tangled with leaves and twigs, and sweat plastered the fly-always to her heart-shaped face. Her small, bloody hands were clenched into two red fists, and everything from the mid-thigh of her right leg down was bent the wrong direction.

She heard the others join Elliot. Mama gasped.

"Elsie, you and Elliot run and fetch Papa," she ordered, falling to her knees beside her daughter. Emma twirled and folded her legs off to the side prettily, so that her skirts fell in a more lady-like position.

"What's wrong with her, Mama?" Elliot asked curiously.

"There's the longest list of the century," Emma snorted.

"Go!" Mama snapped. The younger two raced off towards the house.

"Where's Elijah when disasters strike? He's so much better than Papa in an emergency..."

Esme blacked out with the pain of her leg throbbing through her whole body.

"...You're very lucky," a deep male voice was saying gently. "I don't usually come this early, but I had so much paperwork..." Esme stopped listening for the meaning of the words and instead focused on the way they sounded. Rich, like fried chicken gravy, and smooth, like a cello she had heard at a church concert once.

_Maybe I'm dead_, she thought pleasantly. _I wonder what Heaven looks like? _

Esme squinted her eyes open, just a bit, and... the most beautiful angel in all of heaven was gazing into her eyes.

_Wow_, she thought in awe. _I could get used to heaven if everyone looks like this_.

The angel was extraordinarily tall, his shoulders broad, and his sleeves hinting of muscular arms. A strand of golden-blond hair had escaped to fall attractively into his amber eyes.

_His hands are also inhumanly cold_, Esme thought to herself as he rubbed her leg. _He's definitely got to be an angel._

He started talking soothingly to her, but she couldn't understand a thing he was saying, because she was so caught up in the sound of his voice.

_He's got a British accent_, she realized as he pulled the hospital sheets up around her and tucked her in. _I didn't know angels had British accents, though I suppose it would make perfect sense. Maybe just this one does. I like this one. He's pretty..._

"Esme?" a familiar voice broke into her pleasant thoughts. "How do you feel, honey?"

Esme looked around in confusion.

_Oh, that's nice, _she thought_. Mama and Papa have come, too._

"Dr. Cullen says we can go home now, dear," Mama explained.

_Home? We _are _home_.

"...it's so dark, Mrs. Platt, I wish you would stay here for the night," the angel said worriedly.

_He cares! _Esme rejoiced_._

"That's very kind of you, Doctor, but..."

_Doctor? The angel's a doctor? _Esme wondered in confusion. _Oh_, the light clicked on. _I'm _not_ dead, darn it. This is... the hospital? _She looked around for the first time to confirm her suspicion. _Yep. So that must be_...

"Who's that?" she rasped, looking pointedly at the angel.

"That's Dr. Cullen, dear," Mama explained. "He's been working the night shift here all winter, but he's leaving within the week. He's the one who fixed your leg up so nicely."

_LEAVING?? _Esme panicked.

"And what is your name, dear?" the angel asked politely. Esme was dismayed to realize that he spoke to her in the well-bred tone of an adult to a child.

_He's not _that _much older than me_, she thought wistfully.

"Esme," she murmured. "Esme Anne Platt."

The angel didn't say anything for a moment, only gazed at her as if he were memorizing her face.

"That's a very beautiful name, Esme. My name is Dr. Cullen. Dr. Carlisle Cullen."

**Angel in My View**

CHAPTER ONE

**Black**

Bitter wind tore at my cloak, billowing my starched skirt, whipping my face with a tangle of fashionable blond curls. They stuck to my tears when they blew against my eyes and cheeks, so I couldn't see the perilous view before me very well.

I was standing on a stony cliff above the beach of Lake Superior in a navy blue dress-suit and short black cape. My caramel hair was pinned in the style of the late twenties, and I was dressed in my Sunday best, ignoring the part where my stockings were torn to reveal my bloody feet, because the shoes appropriate for a funeral are about as sturdy as glass and equally comfortable.

_Christopher's pitiful whimpers filled my head as I grasped his tiny, wrinkled hand. _

_"Don't cry, sweet, don't cry," I begged. "Mommy's here, I'm right here. Please don't cry so. I love you, baby. You're going to be just fine." _

_He went into a pathetic fit of coughing, his tiny chest wheezing up and down. I felt my heart slowly being pulled, like a chunk of raw meat, into tiny pieces…_

I found myself on my knees, bent over, bawling my eyes out. When I wiped my face, trying to get a grip on myself, my hand came away sticky with cover-up, and the sting of the bruise brought on another onslaught of painful memories.

_"You useless hag," Charles muttered darkly. "Why can't I come home to a clean house just once in my life?"_

_I brought in a kettle of steaming stew and served him a generous helping, the way he liked. But when I moved to wipe up a drip that had fallen on the table, I dropped the pot on the edge of his bowl, causing it to fall in his lap._

_Charles jumped up with a great snarl and brought his whole arm mercilessly across my face. I heard my nose break, and my eyes teared as I fell heavily to the floor, the hot kettle falling with me. The boiling stew sloshed across my dress, splashed onto the walls, and puddled in a chunky, steaming mess on the carpet._

_"Look what you've done," Charles spat. "Now I'll have to teach you a lesson. I didn't want to, but you forced me to it, Esme."_

The healing burns on my arms and stomach felt sore as I huddled on the coarse stones. Instead of burning-hot, the liquid dripping from my clothes was ice-cold.

_I should go home_, I thought miserably. _Not back to Cousin Sophia's, but really home, to Mama and Papa_.

The memory of the last conversation I'd had with them quickly banished that hope from my mind.

_"You said, 'For better or for worse,' dear," Mama reasoned. "You don't just give up and leave when it's for worse."_

_"But he's cruel, Mama. You saw my bruises," I said a little frantically._

_"He's just under a lot of stress, honey," Papa explained._

_"Just give him everything he wants," Mama counseled. "Do everything you can to make his life perfect when he's around you."_

_This advice sounded a little twisted to me, but I kept my mouth shut. _

_"Just be a good wife and love him no matter what he does," Mama concluded. "It's not that hard."_

The hopelessness of my situation struck me harder than ever.

_Maybe I _should_ go home_, I thought depressedly. _But not to Mama and Papa. Maybe I should go home to Heaven. Then I would be with Christopher. _This prospect brightened my mood considerably. _But how? _I wondered. To kill myself would mean eternal damnation, and I didn't really care for that idea. _Maybe God will make an exception_, I reasoned. _After all, I've tried to be a good Christian woman. I've been baptized. I never said a curse word to anyone but myself. I read my Scriptures in the evenings, go to church on Sundays. I haven't been perfect, but I've tried hard. _

With that I began to sit up, straighten myself out, and brush myself off.

"Now the only question is how to go about killing oneself when one doesn't want to be found out," I muttered sardonically, pulling my hair back into its pins and slicking down the fly-always. _Well, I don't know why one would try to find a way to go about killing oneself and be found out, but anyway_. I began mentally listing all the forms of suicide I had ever heard of.

1. a gun to the head

2. consuming large amounts of prescription drugs

3. walking in bad parts of Chicago by night

4. sitting in a powered automobile in a closed garage

5. running through Death Valley during the summer

After those, I came up blank. Okay, so it wasn't the most creative list in the world, but they were all effective. I didn't like the idea of shooting my own head. A) I had never handled a gun in my life and B) it didn't seem like something God would want to excuse. It didn't sound very unintentional. 'Consuming large amounts of prescription drugs' and 'sitting in a powered car in a closed garage' ultimately met the same fate, and 'walking in bad parts of Chicago by night' sounded... unpleasant. 'Running through Death Valley during the summer' shouldn't even have been on there, because I am physically incapable of running.

_Well, what else is there? _I racked my brain for ideas until...

6. jumping from heights

_Oh. Well, duh_, I mentally dunce-slapped myself. _And look at this, Esme_, I gazed down at the rocky beach below me, the cold waves lapping the edges and piles of seaweed scattering the boulders. _A convenient height_.

"Well, that was easy," I muttered nervously.

_Jump before you chicken out,_ the voice in my head advised.

"Well, now wait just a minute," I protested.

_You're getting scared, _the voice informed me.

"Scared?" I frantically whispered aloud. "Why on earth would I be scared? I've only got a voice in my head telling me to jump off a cliff."

_You don't have a right to curse the world with your pathetic existence anymore_, the voice said gently._ It would be best if you ended your life now and stopped the pain. You don't have anything to live for, but you do have something worth dieing for._

"And what would that be?" I demanded.

_Christopher._

Just the name brought me to tears.

"Okay," I said in defeat. "Okay, I'll do it."

_Good girl. Easy, now, _the voice said comfortingly as I gazed down at the beach below me, seriously considering the 'run away and hide' option._ Just take a running go at it, _the voice instructed_. It'll all be over soon, and you'll be with Christopher again._

I took a steadying breath and a few steps back.

_Okay, now. Whenever you're ready._

Falling. Pain. Blackout.

"...you stay, I'll run and get help..."

Head knocking around. Excessive pain. Too many noises. Blackout.

"...barely hanging on...very lucky you were there to get help..."

"...Esme Platt Evenson... baby died of lung infection..."

Needles. More pain. More noises. Blackout.

"...get Dr. Cullen...knows more about head injuries..."

Pain. Lights. Noise. Blackout. Sing it with me.

"...have to save her. What are you doing?"

"Saving her, Edward, what does it look like?"

"Biting."

"Very good. Thank you for the newsflash."

Intense pain in… left? wrist…. Blackout.

It was dark in the room I was in, though that might have just been because I was still unconscious. Or dead. I couldn't tell. I felt coherent, but when I pinched myself I couldn't feel anything. I gave up trying to figure it out because it made me dizzy.

I groaned as a fluorescent light snapped on overhead.

"Is she awake _yet_?" a male voice asked impatiently.

"Turn that light off, it's the last thing..."

_That voice_, I snapped to attention. I recognized that voice... I had obsessed over it for four years before my parents started talking about Charles. Let me tell you, that is a long time to obsess over a _voice_.

"...doing okay. She's coming through a lot faster than you did. I'm no expert, but I think she's doing well."

"Why?"

"Well, for starters, she's not walking around like a zombie, though I can't say I've ever had a lot of personal experience with zombies."

"That's reassuring, Carlisle..."

His name! I had to peek. Just a peek, to see if he really was... but no. It _had_ to be a coincidence. There were lots of male doctors with British accents named Carlisle...

I couldn't resist. I opened my eyes.

_I'm definitely dead_, I decided. _Not even a dream could be this much fun_.

"...I'm sure it's just a big prejudice, just like vampires," The Angel was saying.

_Vampires? _I reviewed the conversation in my mind. _You believe in them, too? I saw 'Dracula' four times while it was in the theatres. Where do you stand on the "seeing in the dark" issue?..._

"I think she's awake," the Other One chuckled to The Angel.

"I think you're right," The Angel murmured, turning to me. "Hello, Esme," he said. I suddenly felt giddy. "How do you feel? Do you remember me? Dr. Carlisle Cullen?"

That made me snort in disbelief.

"I think she does," the Other One informed him. "In her thoughts, she refers to you as 'The Angel'."

"Edward, please. She doesn't know."

_What doesn't she know? _I thought indignantly.

"Sorry." The Other One didn't look very apologetic.

"Thank you." The Angel turned back to me. I choked on my breath. "You've grown up," he said politely, patting my hand.

I blushed-- and short-circuited somewhere between the 'Coherent Thought Dept.' and 'Conversations'.

"Uh, thanks," I said dumbly. For some reason, I couldn't say the same about him. He was just exactly how I remembered him; smartly combed blond hair; extraordinary physique; large hands; perfect voice; eyes like he had filled the irises with honey. His hands weren't as cold as I remembered them, and there was no escaped blond hair falling attractively into his eyes, but those didn't seem like the sort of things a non-obsessed person would deem noticeable. For lack of anything better to say, I commented, "You haven't really changed much."

His face darkened, just a bit.

"No. I have been denied the subtle pleasures of physical aging."

I didn't even _try_ to figure that one out.

"So," he continued conversationally. "What have you been doing since last we met?"  
What a supremely depressing subject. I cleared my throat.

"Oh, you know, the usual. Getting forced into marriages for the money, running away from abuse, going to my baby's funeral, nothing special." I had to take a deep breath to keep from tearing up. The Angel kindly handed me a tissue box. It had pink roses all over it.

"Thanks," I sniffed. The Angel looked like he, too, was going to cry. I couldn't stand the way his eyes had darkened to the color of amber. Still beautiful, but I was partial to honey, personally. Amber's not edible.

"Why are we talking about me?" I asked, disgusted. "Who are you? Why are you here? Why do you care that I exist? Mostly just 'why do you care that I exist'?"

His eyes went from teary to laughing in a second.

"No fair," he teased. "I only asked you three questions, and the first two shouldn't count because they were just manners."

"We're keeping track?" I asked, bewildered. The Angel and the Other One shared a knowing look.

"Tradition."

Blackout.


End file.
